


Birthday Pancakes

by TheseusInTheMaze



Category: markiplier - Fandom
Genre: Anal Sex, Cuddling, Gender Neutral Reader Insert, Oral Sex, Other, Reader Insert, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-06
Updated: 2018-08-06
Packaged: 2019-06-23 00:20:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15594093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheseusInTheMaze/pseuds/TheseusInTheMaze
Summary: It's your birthday! Wilford wants to celebrate with you!





	Birthday Pancakes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NBmess](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NBmess/gifts).



You're woken up by Wilford kissing along your shoulder.

This is a bit of a special occasion.

Wilford doesn't really need to... sleep, as such, the way that other people do, although he does do a pretty decent imitation of it.

And he doesn't usually spend much time in your bed, because he finds it boring.

"Happy birthday," he says. 

"Mmm," you mumble, and you snuggle into him.

His erection is hard against your ass, one of his hands is draped across your side, pressing down on your belly.

You sigh, and you shiver, as he begins to kiss along your neck. 

His mustache is ticklish. 

"What are you doing here?"

You yawn, wide enough that your jaw clicks, and he makes an amused noise, kissing your jaw as well.

His stubble is ticklish as well, and you roll over, to kiss him full on the mouth, slinging one leg over his legs.

He sighs, and his hands go to your back, stroking along it. 

You sigh, beginning to turn to putty. 

He's just... so good with his hands.

He may be crazier than a shithouse rat (and about as dangerous as one), but... well, he cares about you.

He cares about you very much, and he's made it very clear.

He also listens to your rules - including the ones about things like "don't kill anyone when you're going to see me, or in my house" and "none of that teleportation business around me, please and thank you."

He hasn't killed anyone in the present since the two of you started to keep each other company.

... sort of.

He's tried to explain the whole time travel thing to you in the past, but you still find it pretty baffling, truth be told.

He seems to manage it, which is the important part, right?

It's just... well, it's confusing.

How can time work like that?

You read a short story, ages ago - a really grisly one - you read it with one hand over your mouth, wincing the whole time. 

You should lend it to Wilford, now that you think about it - he's got a bit of a taste for the grisly, especially since you put the moratorium on murdering people. 

But in the short story, there's a time traveler, and he cuts holes in the fabric of reality, and things begin to destabilize. 

Could he be doing that?

"Something the matter, precious?"

Wilford kisses behind your ear, and you shudder - it's a sensitive spot.

He nuzzles, and then he kisses you again, and you sigh.

"I'm okay," you say.

Tears in the fabric of reality itself are not really a thing that you can fix, one way or another. 

If he's doing it for you, well... Wilford kind of follows his own rules.

The fact that he's following the rules that you set out is a bit of a miracle, in and of itself. 

His hand moves up, rubbing your belly, and you shudder, goosebumps breaking out along your whole body.

"How does it feel to be one year older?"

You give an awkward, lying-on-your-side shrug.

"It's... fine," you say. "It doesn't feel that different."

"It won't feel different for a while," he tells you, "but when it does, it'll hit like a train."

"What does it feel like, being hit like a train?"

"It tastes like metal," Wilford says, as if that's an answer.

You blink, glancing at him over your shoulder, and he grins at you, toothy and wide.

His mustache is almost blindingly pink in the dimness of your bedroom. 

He's still fully dressed - suspenders, dress shirt, bow tie, the whole nine yards.

He's not wearing shoes though, thankfully.

... you suspect he may have just teleported into your bedroom, now that you think about it.

But you weren't awake for it, so whatever.

He pulls you closer, his chin on your shoulder, and he snuggles up to you some more.

"You smell good," he tells you.

"Do I?"

You don't think you smell that good - you're tired, sweaty, and probably smell like sleep.

"You smell like linear time," Wilford says, right into your ear, and that makes you pause.

What does that even _mean_?

"Is that a good thing?"

"Oh yeah," says Wilford, and then his hand is sliding under your shirt, the very tips of his fingers ghosting along your belly.

You shudder, your whole body on edge, your toes curling and your head thrown back against his shoulder.

"Isn't that nice?"

Wilford's voice is vibrating through his chest, and it's making your skin buzz faintly.

You shiver, your toes curling, and you arch against him, grinding your ass against his cock.

"I think it's nice. I want to do nice things for your birthday. What would you like me to do for your birthday, hm?"

He's just... talking to you, running the tips of his fingers gently up and down along your belly, occasionally brushing over your nipple or even up to your collarbone.

The callouses where holds his gun are rough, and his warmth is soaking through you.

You want to kick off the covers, but he's holding you so closely, and he's still just... kissing your neck, just stroking you, working you up slowly.

He seems endlessly enraptured by your body, and you're not going to complain too hard, because it's so nice to be touched like this, nice to be held and stroked. 

Nice to feel wanted, nice to feel treasured, even by this weird... being.

He is a person, technically.

Maybe more person shaped than person at this point, but still a person, more or less.

You sigh, as he kisses along the thin hair at the base of your neck, as his hand goes to pinch and twist your nipple. 

"I want this to be an excellent birthday," he says, and you shudder again, your toes curling against his shin. 

"S-s-so far, it's going... it's going pretty good," you say, your voice thick.

"Is it?"

"Oh yeah," you say. 

"I wasn't sure if you'd appreciate me waking up with you."

"No, no," you say quickly. "It's nice. I like it."

"I even remembered to take my shoes off this time," he says, and he sounds downright proud of himself.

Oh, Wilford. 

"Thank you," you say, and you even mean it sincerely. 

"How about I make you cum so hard you forget your own name, and then I make you breakfast?"

His tone is so casual that it makes you chuckle.

He's got this... ability, to make anything come off as some kind of normal thing to say, even if it's entirely outlandish.

Maybe it's part of the whole "not exactly human" thing.

Although his cooking leaves something to be desired.

You're... pretty sure that he needs to make ingest food, although he doesn't eat nearly as often as you do, and you've seen him eat things that he probably shouldn't.

He's always been a bit hazy about his origins, and you don't ask too much.

"How about you help me make breakfast instead," you say.

"So no orgasm?"

"Oh, no, I'm totally pro orgasm," you tell him, your tone entirely too earnest.

He breaks out into a wide, toothy grin, and if you didn't know him as well as you do, you might find it unsettling.

As you _do_ know him, you find it endearing. 

He's got very bright teeth, and he's got a lot of them. 

Sometimes they look sharper than they probably are, although that may be your imagination.

He's always been the very picture of gentleness with you. 

"Right," he says, and then he's gently turning you over, so that you're face to face with him, and he's kissing you.

Kissing Wilford is always an experience, because... well, he kisses like he wants to eat you alive.

You don't think he'd eat you alive.

... hopefully. 

You kiss him back, your fingers in his hair, and he rolls on top of you, under the covers.

There's something alien about this - about the fact that you're in an old t-shirt and a pair of pajama pants, while he's got on suspenders and a button down shirt.

But he's still kissing you, as he's planted between your legs, his hips rolling, shifting.

His cock is hard against your thigh, and his tongue is hot and familiar in your mouth.

You sigh, right into the kiss, and then he pulls back, and he kisses along your neck, gently.

"Well," he says, and he's smirking, "you are wearing _far_ too many clothes, aren't you?"

"Am I?"

"Oh yes," he says, and he's grabbing the hem of your shirt, shoving it up and over your head, and then he's sliding his fingers under the waistband of your pajamas as well, pushing them down.

You sigh, shivering, as he guides them down your legs, because... well.

Now you're lying here, naked. 

You're naked, and he's fully clothed, and it's a bit intimidating, with him looming over you like this.

He's so much... stranger than you could ever imagine.

Not that you would complain too hard, because the strangeness is its own sort of spice, but it's still terrifying.

He licks his lip, and then he's leaning forward, mouthing at your collarbone, then lower, taking your nipple into his mouth.

He sucks on it, just the way you like, and he swirls his tongue along it, which makes you tangle your fingers in his hair, your back arching, your legs wrapping around his hips.

"Fuck," you mumble.

"No," he tells you, his tone silky smooth, almost smug. "No, I've got a special present for you later, and I want to save it for then."

"By "it," you mean...."

"My penis," Wilford says, and he's grinning like a shark.

You roll your eyes.

"Only you can make you using your penis on me sound like an exciting thing," you say, your tone dry.

"Would you rather I didn't use it?"

"No, no," you say, as he kisses along your stomach.

Your arousal is already pretty evident - your body has never been exactly... subtle about when you're enjoying something.

Your pajama pants have a wet spot, from before he pulled them off of you.

He smirks at you, and then he's... oh god.

His mouth is on you - there's no subtlety to it, no finesse, but... well, he's not really a person for finesse, is he?

He just uses his tongue on you, doing things that make your eyes roll back in your head, your heels digging into the bed, then digging into his ribs, and he's chuckling, even as he begins to do things with his tongue.

He knows exactly what you love, exactly the way you love it, and he likes to fuck with you, because... well, that's the kind of guy he is.

You suppose that you're grateful that he doesn't actually want to kill you, although you were nervous in the early days.

But here is his mouth, and it's making obscene wet noises, as your hands slide into his hair.

He's going to be a mess - you can tell he's drooling down his chin, and when he pulls off of you to kiss along your thighs, his face is wet with your arousal. 

He's going to be a mess. 

He's already a mess.

His lovely shirt is going to be gross, and his bowtie is going to end up all musky, if he keeps this up.

Oh well.

It's not like you're the one who does his laundry.

His hands are on your inner thighs, and he's forcing them further open, kneading at them like they're bread.

You groan, a long, hard sound, your hips beginning to hunch, because holy fuck, his mouth feels so _good_ , and he's just doing it... perfectly.

How is he so perfect?

He's not exactly human (or at least, not human the way that you know human), and yet he can do things with his mouth that make you want to believe in some kind of higher power. 

He is still slurping away, and you're melting into the mattress, trying to remember to breathe, trying to remember how to even respond to mind meltingly good pleasure.

He's making pleased noises, with his mouth full of your genitals, and you're...well, there's something very Wilford about that, which has you grinning in spite of yourself, no doubt killing the mood, but who cares about the mood, because his finger is tracing along your ace, and that's... that's an extra little bit of sensation that's making your back arch, making your eyes roll back.

You cum, right into his mouth, and you're sobbing as the pleasure washes over you, leaves you shaking, leaves you panting, your orgasm pulsing through you like a heartbeat, leaving you completely spent on the bed, panting.

He presses a kiss to your inner thigh, and then he looks up at you, licking his lips.

"Nothing like a pre-breakfast cocktail," he says, his tone smug.

You groan, covering your face with both hands, because... holy crap, that's the most Wilford thing ever.

His lips are swollen and red, his mustache is pink and sticky. 

He comes up to kiss you, and you can kiss yourself on his mouth. 

"Now," he says, "how about I make you breakfast, hm?"

"I'll do it," you say, your eyes half shut.

"But it's your birthday," he says, and his voice sounds plaintive. 

"I like to cook," you assure him. 

"Well, yes," he says, because he does know you. "Is there anything else you'd like for your birthday?"

"Stay with me," you tell him. "Keep me company."

He goes out and about usually - you don't know what he's getting into, but he's not coming home covered in blood, and that's all you really care about. 

"But of course," he says, and he gives you another toothy grin.

God, even his nice shirt has wet spots on it.

You really did a number on him, didn't you?

Your legs are still shaking from your orgasm. 

"You should shower," he says.

"You mean we should shower," you counter.

"Do I need a shower?"

"You're pretty gross right now," you tell him.

"I do apologize," he says. "I would never have been so disrespectful as to make a mess of myself on your birthday."

You begin to laugh - ugly, honking laughter, curling forward, your knees against your belly, because how can you _not_ laugh, when he looks so damn sincere?

"What's so funny?"

"You're a peach, Wilford," you tell him. 

"Would you like me to get you peaches?"

"If you'd like to," you tell him. "I meant more that you're a very sweet man."

"You think so?"

"Oh yes," you say. 

He kisses you, leaving a wet spot on your face, and you make a face, but you sit up.

"Let's shower," you say. 

"You'd like me to shower with you?"

"Oh yeah," you tell him. "Come on." 

"Well," he says, and he's standing up, sliding his fingers under his suspenders, letting them dangle down your sides.

"Well?"

You ogle him as he gets naked, not even trying to be subtle about it.

He's... he's good looking.

You don't know if he knows how good looking he is, or if he's just a peacock of a man in general.

You fluctuate between one and the other, honestly. 

"I'm a tad overdressed," he says, as he unties his bow tie, dropping it on your bedroom floor, then beginning to unbutton his shirt.

Wow, he's got a broad chest.

You want to run your hands along his chest, but you don't want to interrupt the show that he's giving you right now. 

He shimmies out of his pants, out of his boxes, and even kicks his socks off.

His cock is still hard, almost angry looking, throbbing and dark red.

"Are you sure you don't want me to...?"

You indicate his dick.

He shakes his head.

"No," he says. "I don't want to cum today until it's in your ass."

_Oh_.

Something inside of you clenches, sweet and hard, and you blush.

He's got this way of just... saying things, in a way that would be gross and porny if anyone else was saying it, but when he says it, it's just... sexier than it has a right to. 

"Right," you say, and you clear your throat.

"Shall we?"

He holds a hand out to you, as if he isn't standing there, naked as the day he was born, his cock hard and pressed against his belly. 

You take his hand, and he squeezes your fingers, helping you out of bed.

It's hard not to feel like royalty, when he treats you like this.

Of course, sometimes you do things a little different - sometimes you submit to him, let him degrade you until you're crying.

Sometimes he submits to you, and you beat him like a rug.

But, since it's your birthday, it seems to be that you're some flavor of royalty.

Not that you're gonna complain too hard. 

You let him lead you into the bathroom, and you stand under the water with him, your arms draped over his shoulders, and his cock is hard and hot against your belly.

"So," he says, "what do you want for breakfast?"

"I'm going to make pancakes," you tell him. 

"What kind?"

"What kind would you like me to make?"

"It's _your_ birthday," he says. "You should make what you want."

"When is your birthday?"

"A long time ago," Wilford says, in that same tone that he always uses when you ask him details about certain things.

It's... complicated. 

You know it's complicated, and his smile gets a bit fixed.

You grab the soap, and you lather up your hands, carefully washing his face.

The past is a different country for Wilford, and not a country that he wants to travel to.

You can be respectful of that, even if you wouldn't mind a postcard from it now and then.

He sighs, but he tilts his head back, and the water rinses his face off, even his mustache. 

"You should get some kind of... conditioner for your mustache," you tell him, half teasing.

"I'd rather just keep washing it in the blood of my enemies," Wilford says, and his voice is so deadpan that you can't actually... tell if he's joking, or if he's being serious.

Um. 

“I don’t think that does much for your own hair,” you tell him.

“It seemed to work for Elizabeth Bathory,” Wilford says, his tone cheerful. 

You roll your eyes.

You’re half curious if he’s ever… met Elizabeth Bathory, although you try not to think about his time traveling too hard.

That’s all a bit too complicated.

You’re used to thinking of things in a linear way, rightly or wrongly.

Maybe someday, your mind will open like a flower in the morning.

In the meantime, you let Wilford wash your hair. 

* * *

When you're in the kitchen, Wilford does you the great service of staying out from under foot.

It's not so much that he is a pain, because he's not!

He likes to be helpful!

It's just... well, it's unsettling seeing him with a knife, even if he's applying it to fruit. 

But he lets you make him breakfast without too much fuss, and he eats it happily.

"I like birthday pancakes," he tells you.

"Do you?"

"Oh yes," he says. "Is it much of a tradition?"

You shrug, pouring syrup over your pancakes, and you cut into them. 

You filled them with fruit, and the sweetness of it (contrasting with the salt of the butter) is enough to make you curl your toes all over again.

This is perfect.

This has been great.

"What kind of pancakes would you like for your birthday?"

It pops out of your mouth before you think.

"I mean," you add quickly, "it can just be some kind of thing where you want me to make you something nice."

"Hm," says Wilford, and he leans back in his chair, still chewing. "What could you make that would match my... aesthetic?"

He wiggles his mustache comically, and you snicker.

"I suppose I could try making cotton candy pancakes," you say, your tone thoughtful. "I'm not sure how that would work, though."

"Pancakes ala mode with cotton candy ice cream?"

You wrinkle your nose.

"Cotton candy ice cream tastes like toothpaste," you tell him.

"What kind of toothpaste are _you_ using, and where can I get some?"

"Maybe that's more the bubblegum toothpaste," you say, your tone thoughtful. "I'll be really honest, I tend to get the two of them mixed up."

"Why?"

"Same color scheme," you say. 

"Maybe I should add some light blue to my look, to complete the cotton candy aesthetic."

He's dressed down right now - you are too, in a clean pair of pajama pants.

He's just wearing jeans, which is a bit odd, although you won't complain too hard.

He looks good.

It's your birthday - you'll go out with him later, dressed to the nines, but for now... well, you've got other stuff to worry about.

You're going to stay in all day, watch movies, generally be a slug.

He's been pretty agreeable about it, although he's usually agreeable about these sorts of things.

You take another bite of your pancakes, your eyes rolling with delight, and you smile at him across the table.

He smiles back, and he almost looks like a human as he does it.

* * * 

You've been sprawled out on the couch for almost two hours when Wilford begins to rub your feet.

It's a good foot rub, too - a nice, deep foot rub, as he digs his thumbs into the sole of your foot, as you curl your toes against his wrist.

You're watching an old favorite movie of yours, that you've watched a million times before.

Wilford usually complains about watching it again, but... well, he's indulging you.

He may also be bored.

You try to be careful when he's bored, because while he'd never hurt _you_ , he has been known to get into some... strange circumstances when he's boring.

You're still not sure how he got the toaster stuck on the ceiling fan.

But he's sitting on the floor now, and his strong hands are slowly working over your feet, even going so far as to crack your toes.

"You know," he says, "you should take your pants off."

"Should I?"

You're lazy, almost teasing, as you curl your toes against his wrist again, as he begins to rub your other foot in earnest.

"Oh yes," he says. "You should take them off, so I can rub your legs."

"Well," you say, "I can't really argue with that."

"I know," he says, and he's smirking.

You roll your eyes, but you pull yourself free of his grip, to wriggle out of your pajama pants, and then you're standing there in just your underwear, as he looks you up and down.

... okay, so you're a little bit turned on.

There's something nice about being looked at like this.

You lick your lips, and you flop back onto the couch, only for him to look at you thoughtfully.

"How about you lie on your stomach," he says. "I'll rub your back."

"I thought you wanted to rub my legs," you say to him. "That was the point of all of that, wasn't it?"

"Well, yes," he says, "but I'm allowed to get new ideas, aren't I?"

You snort, but you lie on your belly on the couch, your arms tucked under your chin, one of your legs dangling off the edge of the couch.

Wilford settles onto your lower thighs, and then he's beginning to rub your back.

You sigh again, a little harder, and he begins to dig his thumbs into your lower back.

You give a long, deep sigh.

You hold a lot of tension in your lower back, what with one thing and another, and he's being almost too rough, except... he's not, because fuck, you can feel the tension slowly leaving your muscles.

You sigh, a long, deep sigh, as he kneads, and you hear him make a contented noise.

His cock is hard against your ass, and he'll roll his hips every now and then, seemingly without even noticing it.

He likes your ass - you know he likes your ass, he's made it clear - but wow, is he liking it today.

And then the tickle of his mustache is against your back, along your spine, and you jump.

He makes an amused noise, and presses another kiss to your back.

"You know," he says, in a conversational sort of tone, "I said I was going to wait, but I don't think I have it in me."

"Mmm?"

You're keyed up, from the intensity of the back rub, from the bits of pain that he's feeding you. 

You're biting your lip. 

"I'm going to fuck your ass," he tells you.

"Are you?"

"Oh yes," he says, and then he's... getting up and off of you, walking off.

You pause, and you look over the edge of the couch.

He's going towards the bathroom.

"I thought you were going to fuck my ass," you call after him.

"I am," he calls back, "just give me a minute."

You lie back down, pressing your thighs together, trying to grind against the couch cushions.

... maybe you're more than a little keyed up.

All of that oral sex this morning was amazing, but you're still too turned on to think straight. 

And then Wilford is back, sitting on your thighs again, and he's... pushing down the back of your underwear.

"Mmm?"

"I wouldn't want to sodomize you without the proper lubrication," Wilford says, his tone earnest.

You snicker - how can you not?

Who says things like "sodomize," anyway?

But then he's... his breath is hot and familiar against your lower back, and he's kissing lower, he's... holding your ass open with both hands, and he's licking you.

He's licking you, long, sweet strokes with his tongue, and fuck, that's... intense.

It's not that you're _against_ rimming, per se, but it's so intense that you begin to lose control of your breathing before he's even really started.

_Lick lick lick_ , goes his tongue, and your heart is thudding so loudly in your ears that you can't hear the movie.

It's a sweet, tight sort of pleasure, building and building at the base of your spine.

You don't know what to do - you can't jerk forward into it, you can't hump back against it, you just have to take it, because he's got you pinned, just a bit, and he's moaning enough that it's clear that he's into it.

He pulls back, kissing along one of the cheeks of your ass, and he makes a contented noise.

"God, you are downright _luscious_ ," he says, in a tone of voice that would be reverent on another man.

If he is a man.

Wow, your brain is going in circles, isn't it?

But then he's licking you again, doing wriggling, twitching things with his tongue that make your hips jerk, as you tangle your hands in your own hair, twisting it, moaning loudly.

At least there isn't anyone around to hear you moaning.

Your arousal is probably going to leave a musky stain on the couch, but you can deal with that later.

God, he's... he's sucking, and you're on the very edge of some kind of something - a small orgasm, maybe, although you don't have those that often.

And then he's sucking, and you go utterly stiff, as the sharp shock wave begins to spread through you.

You sob into the cushions as you're wracked with pleasure, although you're twitching, your whole body on edge, overly sensitive. 

He makes an amused noise, kissing above your ass again, then taking a nibble.

"Good?"

His tone is one of polite inquiry.

You give him a shaky thumbs up.

"How about my cock. Are you ready for my cock to split you asunder, my darling dear?"

His tone is downright _sing song_ , and it would be terrifying, if you weren't so horny.

"You're not going to split me asunder," you mumble. 

"Well, no," says Wilford, and his breath is ticklish, almost as ticklish as his mustache, although he's sitting up now, and you can hear faint wrestling. "I'm just being poetical."

"Poetical," you echo.

"Indeed," he says, and then there's the sound of a cap being popped, and wet noises.

And then a cold finger is being slid into your ass.

It's very cold, slick with lube, and you groan, focusing on relaxing.

Focusing on not clenching, not tensing up.

He fucks your ass open carefully, with one finger, then two, murmuring sweet, filthy nothings to you as he does it, as you roll your hips up to meet it, rubbing your own arousal against the couch cushions.

"I love you like this," he tells you, his tone completely serious.

"Mm?"

"I love you like this," he says again, and then there's the sound of a zipper, and something hot and damp is against your thigh, before he hisses. 

He's probably lubing up his own cock. 

You shudder at that thought. 

"W-why?"

"You're just... waiting for me," he says, and he presses the head of his cock against the very rim of your hole. "I can feel how desperately you want it. You're trying to pull me in."

"Of course I am," you mumble. "Because I know how good it's going to feel."

"Well," he says, in a tone of voice that could be read as indulgent, "I suppose, since it's your birthday...."

And then he's pushing himself into you, all the way in, and he's draped across your back, his breath hot on your neck, his chest pressed into your back.

He's still wearing his shirt, and it's sweaty, sticking to your skin where your own shirt has ridden up, and it's a bit gross, but... fuck, totally worth it.

You squeeze around him, and he sighs, rolling his hips forward, fully seated inside of you as you adjust to him.

"God," you say, your voice thick.

"He doesn't have anything to do with any of this," he says, and then he's kissing along your shoulder, as he begins to fuck you.

It's barely a fuck - it's almost "making love," although Wilford would never be so crass as to indulge in that kind of sentimentality. 

But he's fucking you now, fucking you into the couch, and he's grunting and moaning over you, taking his pleasure from your body, moaning into your ear.

You're moaning back, and then you moan harder, as his hand (his clean hand, not the one that had been in your ass, thank fuck) is crushed between you and the couch, but he's rubbing you, pressing down right where you need it the most, and he gasps, because... god, you're going to cum around him.

You're going to cum around him, as he fucks your ass on your couch, on your birthday, and... god, this is the kind of perfect you didn't know you needed. 

You sob into your arms as you cum, and then he’s swearing, his hips working faster as he cums inside of you - he throbs, gets hotter, and then it’s just… wetness inside of you, and it’s gross and wonderful, as he flops on top of you, nuzzling into your neck. 

“Fuck,” he says, and he kisses your temple, his face sweaty. 

“We just did,” you say, giggling a bit. 

“I guess I’ll have to bring out the big guns for your birthday dinner,” says Wilford.

He’s not moving - he just stays draped on top of you, weighing you down pleasantly.

You’re probably going to have to get up in a few minutes, but for now… it’s a good way to spend your birthday.

**Author's Note:**

> Like this fic?
> 
> Want me to write you something like it, or something completely different?
> 
> Come talk to me on my Tumblr, theseusinthemaze.tumblr.com!


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